


As Sure As There is Night and There is Day

by Thistlerose



Category: Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, Pre-Canon, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after her arrival in Aquila, Isabeau D'Anjou feels very much alone and frightened.  But she's still open to the possibility of romantic love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Sure As There is Night and There is Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faithfulcynic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithfulcynic/gifts).



Once she was outside the city gates, Isabeau urged Atalanta into a gallop. Under a soot-colored sky, they raced over cobblestones, which soon gave way to the hard-packed dirt of the wagon path. They passed vineyards and orchards – all bare now, and rather sad-looking under the gathering snow clouds. They passed the fields where a few lean sheep grazed on yellowed grass; a guard tower; and a handful of ramshackle peasant huts, all of which looked to Isabeau as if a strong gust might blow them to pieces.

She rode hard until she could no longer hear the cathedral bells. Then she reined in Atalanta and turned to look back.

Even at that distance, Aquila seemed threatening. A hulking black shape against the gathering twilight, the city made Isabeau think of a sea monster, slowly coming awake as it rose up from the deep. As she watched, the cold air burning in her lungs, lights began to flicker along the battlements. They were just the watchmen’s torches, but they seemed like a multitude of eyes, peering through the darkness, searching for her.

As if sensing her mistress's distress, Atalanta whuffed softly and shook her head. “There, now,” Isabeau murmured, bending low over the mare’s neck and brushing the thick mane with her hand. “There, now. It will be all right, my dear.”

Atalanta shook her head again and took a few skittish steps backward. “No,” said Isabeau, straightening in the saddle and frowning at the winking torchlight, “I don’t believe me either.”

She thought back to her first sight of that city, only a few short months ago. It had been early summer then, and the pear trees had been full of white flowers that came fluttering down like snowflakes when the wind shook the branches. Upon her arrival in Aquila, Isabeau had still been grieving for her father – who’d always been a rather distant figure to her, but who’d still been the only family she’d known up until that point. But the sight of the city walls and of the orchards, the sound of the cathedral bells ringing out over the craggy hills as if to welcome her … these things had filled her with hope, and for a few days – perhaps a week – she’d believed that she could be happy in her cousin the vicomte’s home.

Isabeau’s hands clutched Atalanta’s reins and squeezed tightly as she remembered.

A few days of safety and the glimmer of happiness.

Then she’d caught the eye of the bishop.

How she wished she’d chanced to be looking somewhere else when his gaze first fell upon her that morning! Then she’d have missed the fevered light that ignited in his dark eyes, the way the blood drained from his face, and the deep lines on either side of his mouth went suddenly slack.

Since that morning, his glance seemed to follow her. At mass, his lips shaped the words of his sermon, but his eyes stayed locked on her. She bowed her head, studying her interlocked fingers, but her neck and shoulders ached with the weight of his gaze.

Though just eighteen and still a virgin, Isabeau did not consider herself an innocent. She wasn’t blind to the stares men cast her way. Sometimes she secretly enjoyed the attention; other times, it made her uncomfortable. And she knew that the bishop’s lust for her was different from anything she’d ever seen before. 

The bishop’s lust made her feel trapped in her own skin; inwardly, she writhed, longing to drag her nails across her skin, to rend herself unrecognizable, undesirable. It made her want to scream from the tops of the bellow towers, as loud as the hawks that wheeled in the sky overhead.

It made her want to ride as far as she could, and not look back. Into the mountains that rose to the northeast, where the snow between the crags was already deep. How she would live there, she did not know, almost did not care. Maybe there was a secret pass that would lead her safely to the other side. Or perhaps she could find a ship that would carry her south, back to the land of her childhood. A woman traveling alone was likely to run into trouble, even one who knew how to wield a sword, like Isabeau. But she could cut her long blonde hair and bind her breasts. She could don a man’s tunic and trousers, pass herself off as a squire whose master had died. For a time, anyway.

Or there was the nun’s habit. But though she loved God, trusted Him, in her heart Isabeau did not think that that was the path He intended for her. She enjoyed fine things too much, as well as dancing, and the idea of romantic love. 

While she sat there considering her meager options, her fingers still curling tightly around Atalanta’s reins, the sky grew darker and the first snowflakes began to fall. They lit upon the ends of her lashes, making her blink. She tilted her head back and exhaled, watching as the vapor from her lips thinned and disappeared into the chilly air.

She should ride back to Aquila, she knew. Now, before it became too dark to see. Though Aquila was the bishop’s domain, outside the city walls there were wolves and brigands, and she’d only thought to bring a small knife with her for protection.

She was about to turn back when Atalanta lifted her head, her long ears pricking up, and Isabeau heard the distant but unmistakable thunder of another horse’s hooves against the cold ground. A large horse, by the sound of it, and coming from the direction of the city. Which meant that the rider was probably one of the guards of Aquila. But which one? The bishop’s toady, the odious Marquet? Not that it mattered; a guardsman might chide her for riding out alone so close to sunset, but he wouldn’t dare harm her. 

But he might tell the bishop that she’d been out alone, Isabeau thought grimly. And the bishop might decide that her movements required even closer scrutiny.

Isabeau cast about in desperation. A little to her right, there stood a copse of tall oak trees. Their shadows, she thought, might be deep enough to conceal her from view, especially if whoever was coming wasn’t actually looking for anyone. As she nudged Atalanta forward, she dropped one hand to her saddlebag, where the knife was hidden. Her fingertips brushed the handle.

When at last the rider came into view, she sighed with relief because she knew him – and it wasn’t Marquet. She recognized Etienne Navarre by his pale blond hair, and the great two-handed sword in its scabbard at his side. He reined in his Friesian stallion not far from where she hid, and peered into the gathering darkness all around him. 

“My lady?” he called, though he clearly did not see her. “Lady Isabeau?”

She hesitated. Unlike Marquet and some of the other guards, Navarre had never given her any reason to distrust him. He seemed to take his duty and his honor seriously – almost to the point of humorlessness, which she’d discovered at their first meeting back in summer. She’d attempted to make a joke – the exact wording eluded her now, but it had had something to do with chivalry or courtly love – and he’d only looked at her frankly and said “Yes,” in that gruff voice of his. 

Etienne Navarre. The memory of their first meeting made her shiver, though she wasn’t sure why. And, for some reason, she was loth to step out of the shadows, into his line of sight.

“Lady Isabeau,” he called again. “I know you’re there. It’s nearly dark and I’ve come to escort you home. Do come out.” He was modulating his tone, trying to sound entreating. It was strange, coming from him. It should have made her laugh; instead, she felt a flutter in her belly, like fear but … not quite.

Very well. She was getting tired of sitting stiffly in the darkness. And she was being unfair to her horse, who must be cold too, and hungry for her dinner. With a reluctant sigh, she nudged Atalanta with her knee, and they moved out of the shadows.

“Good evening, Goliath,” she said, addressing the Friesian. Then, “Captain Navarre.”

“Lady Isabeau.” The third time he said her name, he sounded half-startled, and indeed his eyes widened, as though in surprise. What, had he forgotten what she looked like? Had he truly not expected her to come out eventually?

“Navarre,” she said and, despite herself, she found her lips curving in a slight smile. “Now it is your turn again.”

“My lady—” But then he stopped himself, scowling as he realized that she was teasing him. “Come with me, please. You should not have ridden out alone, especially at this time of day. It’s dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid,” she said, lifting her chin.

He scowled. “Then you’re a fool. Forgive me,” he added at once, as she flushed. He looked at her steadily then, his pale brows drawn together, his thin lips pursed, and with mild amazement she realized that he was actually _asking_ for her forgiveness.

He really had no sense of humor.

“Of course,” she said, with more warmth than she intended and was rewarded with a quick flash of his smile – the first she’d ever seen from him, in fact. “Let us return, then.”

But he didn’t move. He just sat there looking at her, and though the smile was gone, its afterglow seemed to linger over his features. Isabeau stared back at him, half in challenge, half in curiosity, and after a few moments, he lowered his lashes.

But he didn’t turn to go, as she’d thought he would. Not right away, at least. It was almost, she thought, as if he were just as reluctant to return to Aquila as she was. As if he too wanted to stay in this moment. This strange, strange, awkward moment. It was now fully dark, and the snow was thick. Isabeau felt the flakes as they brushed her cheeks and landed on the backs of her hands. Somewhere off in the distance, in the direction of the mountains, a wolf howled. 

But she wasn’t afraid.

12/21/2013

**Author's Note:**

> I've been interested in medieval history for a long time, so when I first started brainstorming this story, I wanted to tie in as much historical information as I could. Fortunately, I hadn't gotten too deeply involved in my research before I realized that that just wasn't going to work. For one thing, if Isabeau is the daughter of one of the [Counts of Anjou](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Counts_and_dukes_of_Anjou), the story would have to be set between CE 861 and CE 1203. But Navarre's sword (a [Zweihänder](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zweih%C3%A4nder)) didn't show up until the 16th century. And don't get me started on the armor.
> 
> The only Count of Anjou to die even close to Antioch was [Fulk V](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fulk_I_of_Jerusalem), who died at Acre in 1143. Forgetting Navarre's sword, I decided to make Isabeau an illegitimate daughter of Fulk V. Her mother died when she was young, and she had no other guardians except Fulk. This would make her Henry II of England's aunt. Which makes no sense, but ... whatever. This wasn't my head canon, but it was kind of floating around in the back of my mind as I wrote.
> 
> Since Aquila has to be within running distance of some mountains, I put it in southeastern France, between the French Alps and the sea. Since "Ladyhawke" was filmed in Italy, I wanted Aquila to be comparatively close to the border too.
> 
> Isabeau's horse, Atalanta, is named after [a heroine from Greek mythology](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atalanta). She was fairly bad-ass, and some of the stories about her remind me a little of Isabeau's.
> 
> Anyway, that's much more information than you probably need. I hope you enjoyed the story. Happy Holidays!


End file.
